


Basilisk

by Rantipo1e



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Freud in Spades, I was never thinking of this as a real child, M/M, Surrealism, Underage -- but not really, there is so much Freud in Chamber of Secrets, this is me psychoanalyzing myself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-09-13
Updated: 2005-09-13
Packaged: 2018-12-30 14:02:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12110286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rantipo1e/pseuds/Rantipo1e
Summary: “And then he heard the voice for the first time, faint but piercing, not so much in his ears as in the bones of his head, almost singing.”What if Harry was not afraid of the Basilisk? Harry could be deeply disruptive without even trying - the Slytherins would never know what happened.Chamber of Secrets is so awesomely Freudian: A giant Snake? That lives in a Cave? Underground? Somebody had to write this. And I love Freud because he gets at the Wild Child inside every adult. I was never thinking of this as an actual child; this is me cutting loose :)





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Come to me… let me rip you… let me tear you," is from Chamber of Secrets. (Really!)

 

 

 

Professor Snape was watching him. He was leaning back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, eyes following Harry's every move.

Harry knew this with the instinct of a hunted animal, though he refused to look, to confirm it.

He bent and straightened, feeling it in his back, feeling the rag in his hand slide across the table. God, he was tired. And the other two students had finished their detentions half an hour ago. He bent and straightened, never stopping, his arm reaching out almost of its own accord. It made his mind wander.

He had taken off his robes and rolled up his shirt sleeves, and he felt the sweat at the back of his neck, at the edges of his forehead. He bent and straightened, taking a strange pride in the motion, now. In the efficiency and elegance of his movements. He was getting good at this; after all, he'd had enough practice. He cleaned around a tap without breaking his rhythm.

And then he realized that he was all alone with Snape. It made the back of his neck prickle. It almost made him falter in his motion, but he reined himself in with an effort of will, not wanting to attract any more attention. He could feel Snape's eyes all over him now, waiting for him to falter.

And it occurred to him that Snape could do whatever he wanted. Could push him against the wall, could grab his wrist, stopping his motion. 

And he knew what Snape wanted. At least, he thought he did. Unless it was only his imagination. He was seeing it now in places where he had never seen it before, in places where it probably did not even exist.

Except when it did. A kind of delightful fear flooded through him to the tips of his fingers and the soles of his feet, and he was momentarily petrified, unable to think, waiting for something to happen.

And then he heard the voice for the first time, faint but piercing, not so much in his ears as in the bones of his head, almost singing.

"Come to me… let me rip you… let me tear you."

"What?" His head jerked upright.

And yes, Professor Snape was watching him, arms crossed.

He felt his heart beating in his throat.

Then he realized that he had spoken in parseltongue.

~

There was a snake loose in the dungeons. It was the only explanation.

Unless it was something else.

But he was going to find it. He had already decided that. Harry moved slowly, absolutely silent, rolling his feet, holding the invisibility cloak closed with one hand and his wand with the other. He had no idea what time it was, and only a vague idea of his location.

And for the first time in weeks, he felt completely free, because he was not Harry Potter. He had left all that back in Gryffindor Tower, creeping away from sleeping people who would ask him questions, and making his way down into the darkness. He felt the corridor grow narrower, the close, dark quiet welcoming him, pulling him back in time, to his earliest memories. The stone under his fingers felt just like the wall of his closet. He leaned up against it. He would move on in just a second.

And the voice rang again in the bones of his skull. "Come to me."

His back spasmed. "Who's there?" 

"I am." 

Well. That was enlightening. 

He was standing in the middle of the corridor now with his wand out, casting a lumos, and in the brightness he couldn't see anything at all. And the voice had become very faint.

"What's your name?" he asked, still loud, but because he was trying to make the snake hear him, wherever it was hiding.

"I am a Basilisk. I do not have a name." 

In parseltongue, the word was a hissed sound.

Bassilissk.

"Lean against the wall again so that I can hear you better."

"What?"

"I am a snake, child. I feel your voice through my skin."

"Oh." And Harry realized he had no idea how a snake's hearing worked. He had never had the chance to really talk to a snake before. 

And it was behind the wall. With a start, he realized why he could not find it in the corridor, why it had been out of sight in Snape's office. It was inside the walls, and yet aware of him somehow. 

So he leaned back against the wall again, whispering now. "How did you know I was here?"

"I follow your heat." 

And he thought about that, about the heat leaving his body and soaking into the stone behind him, about the creature who must be pressed up against the other side. But then he waved one hand in the air, making his point with his wand. "If you're really a snake, then you're cold blooded, right? Don't you need to lie in the sun? How do you stay warm inside the walls?"

The answer was laconic. 

"Hot water pipes."

Harry paused for a second. He snorted through his nose. 

Then he burst out laughing.

~

In the deepest hour of the night, he found himself sitting on the floor in close darkness, wand in his pocket, cloak around his shoulders, leaning back against hard stone and whispering to an invisible companion in a language no one else could understand.

"Who was that other one in the room with you?"

"Just Professor Snape"

"Snake?"

"Snape. He's evil, nasty and slimy."

Snake. Snape. The silence stretched, and then he heard the voice again, slipping between the bones of his skull and into his mind.

"I am not slimy."

~

A scroll rustled. Harry looked up from his essay. 

Professor Snape's hand was splayed wide, holding the scroll open, pinning it to his desk while the other hand marked it with red ink; quick, precise, ruthless. Harry felt sorry for that student. Whoever it was. He hoped it wasn't him.

Professor Snape's fingers were long enough to reach from one end of the scroll to the other. His first finger had a green stain on it. And his hands moved together in a kind of dance now, rolling up the scroll, laying it to one side, opening the next one, until it in turn was spread open on the desk. 

Then the hands stilled. 

Harry lowered his eyes quickly. 

He turned a page in his textbook and wrote a sentence in his essay. 

But then he couldn't move. The scratching of the quill had never started up again. He was all alone with Professor Snape, and it was late, and Professor Snape was absolutely silent. 

Harry waited. He felt his breath move through his nose, felt his chest rise and fall. Because now Professor Snape was going to do something, and he wouldn't be able to do anything about it. His throat felt tight.

Then the scratching of the quill began again.

He felt suddenly hollow. 

He looked. One of Professor Snape's hands was moving fluidly, the other now holding an essay open, now rolling it and picking up the next. And he fell into a kind of limbo where Snape might notice, but didn't, might stop, but didn't, where Snape's hands splayed, swirled, fingers touching quill, parchment, desk, ink. Snape stood in a grate of chair legs.

Professor Snape was looking at him, right at him. "Come here." He spoke quietly.

And so Harry got up and moved forward, until he was standing right in front of the desk, waiting. Professor Snape was waiting for something. Waiting. Silent. Harry's face was hot. He had no idea. 

But he did.

He closed his eyes.

For an impossible second, he thought about opening them again. But his face was burning and he didn't dare. He could never look at Professor Snape again. 

And then there was a finger under his chin.

And the world shifted. Just one finger, right at the tip of his chin, but it held him, told him that he was being held, told him not to move.

A thumb brushed his mouth.

~

"How old are you?"

"I do not know."

"How long have you been here?"

"A very long time."

"Why do you talk to me? Why don't you want to eat me anymore?"

"Because you are the Heir of Slytherin, my Master. And I didn't say that I don't want to eat you anymore."

"Oh."

The silence lasted so long that Harry thought the basilisk had gone away invisibly, had left him. But then the voice came again, close and humming in his bones.

"I want to taste your scent on my tongue."

~

The hand on his back was moving slowly in circles, and he realized he was shivering.

Professor Snape's hand on his back was the strangest thing he had ever felt. No one had ever. At least, not for as long as he could. No one. 

But it never varied, circled slowly, never stopping, and he never quite opened his eyes, and he waited for it to come back when it left him for a moment.

But when it returned it was under his robes, so warm, with just his shirt between that hand and his skin, so warm, making it hard to stand up, and he had had no idea. No idea at all. He just leaned into it, leaned into Professor Snape, and somehow Snape's knees had come up underneath him, and Snape's arms were around him, all around him, and that hand still on his back, stroking.

Stroking all up and down now as he fell against the Professor, so warm, arching into it, letting it move him slowly back and forth. He felt himself go utterly limp, his hands falling to his sides, his head falling forward, the wool of Professor Snape's robes rough against his face.

And his collar felt tight, pressing into his throat because he was bending his head; but he didn't want to move. 

He felt the open place where his collar had pulled away from the back of his neck. He felt the bare spot there. He felt air whisper down inside, felt his skin shiver.

He felt Professor Snape's teeth close on him gently.

~

He found himself searching out the Basilisk every night, roaming farther into the dungeons, deeper and deeper into damp rooms that smelled of centuries of silence and emptiness.

"Where do you go when I can't find you?"

"The Chamber of Secrets. It is your birthright."

"Why can't I see it now? Why can't I find it?"

"Because you are not yet ready to claim it." 

The voice was a whisper and a song in his mind. 

"Soon."

~

Harry leaned back against the arm that held him and watched the hand on his shirt, one finger pushing the button through its buttonhole easily, unhurried, moving down to the next button, slow and quick. Professor Snape's fingers curled and straightened on his shirt, around his buttons, one of them grazing his skin just slightly, furling and unfurling without pause, moving on to his pants, and suddenly there were no more buttons. 

But those fingers were still moving, fluid, precise, as if he were something valuable being unwrapped, lifting one edge of his shirt and folding it back, then the other, careful, and in the same movement pulling down his zipper. One finger hooked his pants and shorts at the side and slid down, slowly, the other fingers tracing the contours of his hip through his clothes, while the arm behind him rolled him against the Professor's chest and the finger hooked again and slid down the other side, and then that hand was free to touch his thigh, his knee.

And somehow, his pants were down around his ankles, the Professor's hand moving his legs gently wider, the backs of the fingers drawing down the inside of his thigh, stroking, approving him. He watched. 

Should he do something?

Did he want to?

~

"The Chamber of Secrets is easy to get to.

"But you must close your eyes, because my gaze can kill.

"Find a handle with a snake on it. Any handle will do. To claim your birthright, you must command it to open, in parseltongue." 

And when Harry began to look, he saw snake-shaped handles on doors, on taps, on cupboards and cabinets. He realized that the entrances to the Chamber of Secrets were everywhere, waiting.

~

He had stopped asking himself questions because there were too many.

Because that hand was resting right against the pale curve of his stomach, long fingers cupping his belly, thumb stroking across his navel, sliding in, stroking, stroking, across and then suddenly inside again.

The fingers spread across his belly, sliding downward, and then slid together again, opening to cover his skin, closing to cup the curve below his navel, and his thighs began to tingle, but the hand stayed on his stomach, thumb dipping into his navel now, and again. He imagined those fingers on the inside of his thigh, where they had been before, could feel where they had touched, sliding down to the inside of his knee, wished for them.

Then the Professor's hand lifted from his skin and he was bereft, mouth open, heard himself make a small noise.

One finger touched his prick, a long, sure stroke.

And it was like fire. He made another noise. But that finger did not return. He watched it hover, then reach out to circle under one of his balls, then the other, lifting gently, balancing each one for a moment. Then it was gone.

And the Professor's hand had moved to his thigh, just as before, just as he had imagined, the backs of the fingers brushing down the tenderest skin of the inside, then back up, one sliding all the way up to stroke right between his buttocks, touching him everywhere, oh, and again.

As if by accident, the tip of that finger lodged briefly inside, inside him for a moment before continuing. And then returned, after he had ceased to hope, somehow slippery and sliding deeper, inside. Unbelieving, he spread his knees to watch. And saw the second finger enter him, sliding, large and unyielding inside him but good, moving, stroking him inside, so nice, and he didn't think, he just watched as those fingers moved, stroking impossibly deeper, until he felt the rest of Professor Snape's fingers come to rest against his skin, watched the whole hand stroke him, touch him everywhere, holding him open until he couldn't stop his movements.

Then Professor Snape's hand moved to his own pants.

His head jerked up, and Professor Snape was looking at him, right at him, not a foot away.

He felt one of those fingers touch his chin, holding him, keeping him, and time stopped. 

Professor Snape's gaze was impassive.

He breathed for a long moment, his body humming.

Slowly, letting his mouth open, letting the heat flood his face, slowly because he wanted to look for as long as he could, he closed his eyes.

~

The Chamber of Secrets was huge. Harry could tell even in the darkness behind his eyelids. And he could hear the Basilisk moving, all around him, a lovely whispering of smooth snake scales and the sweet humming whisper of that voice.

He raised his head toward the sound, blindly, like a flower following the sun.

He could feel its body around him, above him, looming, bending down toward him, and his heart was racing, roaring in his ears. But he stood his ground, frozen with stubbornness and longing

And then he felt its tongue, flickering just under his ear, under his chin, delicate, sweet, exactly what he had longed for.

He let his head fall to one side, tears leaking from beneath his eyelids.

~

Harry felt a finger brush his cheek. He opened his eyes.

And Professor Snape was beautiful. The sharp edges of his lips, the delicate bridge of his nose, the curve of his eyebrow, the eyelashes; Harry wanted to kiss them. But his hands hung limply behind him, his head tipped back, held in Professor Snape's hand, and he could do nothing. So easy to give him this, if he wanted it, whatever he wanted.

And then he felt those fingers touch his mouth, finally hearing the whispered "beautiful, lovely, so lovely" that had been sliding into his ears, and he realized that Professor Snape's fingers were shaking against his lips.

It was at that moment that he became aware of his power. 

And he was swept with an overwhelming surge of protectiveness, whispering reassurances between the trembling fingers of Snape's hand, in parseltongue.

~

He lay on his belly, straddling the Basilisk's neck, the graceful coils of its body underneath him. He could feel it breathing gently.

And he reclined as on an oriental throne, a divan, cheek propped on one hand, shoulder and arm across the back of the Basilisk's head, feeling its voice hum through his chest.

He kicked one foot lazily, watching it slide over beautiful smooth scales. He traced the smaller scales of the back of the Basilisk's head with the fingers of his free hand. It spoke to him, and it was warm, warm as the warm, humid air, deep and secret underground, the workaday architecture of Hogwarts somewhere far above him. Here, in the secret place of his soul, he was free, and the outside world seemed distant and almost unreal. The basilisk sang to him, hissing, eerie and sweet.

Harry surveyed the Chamber of Secrets, the glittering snakes winding around each of the columns, thinking how he would like to climb them, later. Or he could ask the basilisk to lift him. Slowly, he kicked his foot.

Snake. Snape. He thought about his new responsibilities.

He thought of what he might do with his inheritance.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for... biting?

Harry hugged the wall, listening. The darkness of the dungeons closed around him, hiding him. The Basilisk whispered to him. 

But he also heard the whisper of Professor Snape's robes, the small scuffings of his feet as he moved. 

Didn't Snape realize how noisy he was? Or was Harry's hearing getting sharper? Even so, it was getting harder to elude Snape. A challenge.

He turned a corner into complete darkness. But he knew his way now. Or if he didn't, the Basilisk could guide him. 

Lucky that there were so many entrances to the Chamber of Secrets. Snape would never find it. 

If he was careful.

~

The fire was warm against his face as Harry lay on the rug.

Professor Snape reached out with one foot and stroked his back.

They never spoke of where he went before or afterward. They never spoke much at all. But why should they? 

Professor Snape's foot stroked down his back again and he stretched, yawned. Then he rolled over, feeling the rug shift under him, rolled toward Snape, curled tightly around his feet for a moment. When those feet were still, he relaxed, falling to his back, eyes closed. 

He could feel how his shirt had rucked up around his middle, could feel the rug against the bare skin of his thighs. He reached out with his right hand - yes, his trousers were still there. He considered putting them back on. 

But they were so annoying. It was why he had taken them off in the first place. And he was still decent, after all; it wasn't like he was naked. 

He kept his eyes closed. Because Professor Snape was probably looking at him, could see his belly, the skin along his side that felt hot where his shirt was bunched up, could see that bone that stuck out at his hip, his navel. And he could almost feel the professor's gaze there, dipping in, curling around his belly, skimming over his hip, along the edge of his underwear. 

And then he remembered that he had taken off his tie. He had no idea where it was, and he didn't care, because his head had fallen to the side and his neck felt hot along the side where the muscle was stretched out, hot in the hollow of his throat where his collar was unbuttoned. He let his knees roll apart, and that heat shot straight to the insides of his thighs where the skin was revealed now. Because the professor could see it there. If he was looking.

He opened his eyes, and the light hit him with a shock. He hadn't realized that he was so close to Professor Snape's chair; the carved legs, the sheen of the upholstery where it was slightly worn at the corner of the cushion, the dark texture of the professor's trousers. He straightened his glasses.

Professor Snape was reading a book.

He felt his face flush and let his eyes fall shut, went back into the safe darkness, felt it surround him. The toe of the professor's shoe was touching his side. He wanted to go back to imagining that Snape was looking at him.

"You shouldn't trust me."

Harry's eyes flew open again.

And Professor Snape was looking at him now, looking right at him. He looked back, wanting it to last. 

"I may betray you to the Dark Lord."

Abruptly he realized what the professor was saying. That he might betray him. He felt suddenly lost, falling, with nothing and no one to catch him. 

And Professor Snape was smiling just slightly, the smallest tender curl to his lips. Harry had no idea what to make of that, so he didn't try.

He swallowed. Snape might betray him to Voldemort. He said so himself. And it wasn't as if Harry hadn't already thought about it.

Then Snape's smile twisted for some reason, incomprehensible, and his eyes returned to his book.

~

He held on tight to the Basilisk, ear against the back of its head, listening to its song, trying to think what to do. He had kicked off his trousers and shoes somewhere, and felt its smooth scales against his bare feet.

He couldn't imagine asking Ron or Hermione for help with this one. 

He smiled, and for some reason, that made it hard to breathe. He squeezed his eyes shut. He tightened his arms around the Basilisk's neck.

"You will not be able to strangle me that way."

He started, laughed, and felt that voice begin to hum again inside his head and his chest, felt his grip relax until he was draped over the Basilisk's neck, moving with its slow breath. He felt its power, its age, let its simplicity and directness soak into him. With his eyes closed, it was easy to whisper the question.

"Why would Professor Snape betray me?"

The answer was quiet, logical, deadly.

"He belongs to Lord Voldemort."

His chest squeezed. It was only what he had always suspected, but now it was spoken aloud. And he could think of nothing to say. Because there was nothing he could do, nothing that would make the slightest bit of difference. Professor Snape belonged to Voldemort. 

And then the Basilisk spoke again. 

"So do I."

~

Harry lay on the rug, adrift, floating in an uncharted ocean of uncertainty, but for a moment he didn't feel quite so lost. Professor Snape was looking at him again. 

The professor was leaning back in his chair, dark wool against faded upholstery, and he had lowered his book, raised his eyes. His hair had fallen forward, against his cheek. Harry could see the edge of his ear. The curve of his cheekbone made Harry want to touch him, made his throat tight. 

Professor Snape's gaze was unfathomable, dark, full of secrets, and Harry could feel it transfigure him, changing him into something magical, something he could not imagine. He let his hands fall open at his sides. He felt his lips part just slightly. Still the professor did not look away.

He felt his chest rise and fall, felt his heart beat, let his eyes wander over Snape's lips, his cheek.

And there was suddenly a certainty in the universe, though Professor Snape belonged to Voldemort, though the Basilisk did, though Harry knew nothing at all.

He knew that he wanted Snape.

~

There was something new on the dais, at the feet of the statue of Salazar Slytherin, something ghostly, silent, unmoving.

He slid from the snake's back and walked toward it.

It was a man in a chair, no, a boy; a boy with dark, glossy hair, fine eyebrows, large beautiful dark eyes, and pale, so pale.

Harry reached out to touch and his hand went right into the boy's chest. He felt cold and hot and dizzy, and for some reason, he didn't move. 

He only let his hand fall when it grew too heavy for him to lift. He was so tired that he forgot to close his eyes when he turned, but the Basilisk had done that for him, had closed its own eyes. Unmarveling, mindless, he simply turned his head, pressed his cheek against its smooth nose, leaned against the curve of its body. He felt its tongue taste his chest. 

After a long while he asked the question.

"Who is that?"

The answer was enigmatic.

"Tom Riddle."

~

He could feel Professor Snape behind him, getting closer.

He slipped around a corner, through a space between two cabiniets and quickly turned a snake-shaped handle, whispering in parseltongue, feeling a strange eagerness.

Something was going to happen; something was already happening. 

The boy in the chair looked older than he had yesterday. Harry walked toward the front of the Chamber slowly from the doorway, never taking his eyes off the boy in the chair, trying to soak it in somehow, look until he understood, moving closer and methodically stripping off his tie without thinking, his shirt, feeling his steps ease after he toed off his shoes, shucking his trousers, underwear and socks all at once and letting them all lie where they fell, forgotten. When he reached the Basilisk he stopped and stared, leaning into the smooth curve of its body in the warm darkness, taking a deep breath, letting his head fall against the Basilisk's side, listening to its voice. 

The chair was a throne, he could see it clearly now, a throne covered with gems, with filigree, with embossed golden snakes twining. 

The Basilisk's tone was mordant. 

"He always did put on airs."

Harry smiled. 

But he moved closer; because the young man was a lovely ghost now, the fine large eyes, the features more spare, cheekbones more prominent, aristocratic, face almost too beautiful to touch. He reached out his fingers. And it was just as before, his heart pounding, vision blurring, his hand cold and his body hot and something squeezing his chest and his throat until he felt his strength leave him. 

When his hand fell he stumbled backwards, falling against the Basilisk again, limp and suddenly afraid. The beautiful man's eyes were a very dark red.

He clung to the Basilisk's neck, looking, watching, waiting And he whispered, as if the man on the throne could hear him. 

"Tell me about Voldemort."

The singing rose all around him and he was swept up, unresisting. 

"He is my master. You are much like him. But his scent is different." 

The Basilisk paused, but Harry was in a timeless place now, the long silence filling his ears, stretching him. He waited an eternity for the next words, and when he finally heard them, they seemed to come through his body, humming in his bones.

"He is not alive as you are. I do not wish to sink my teeth into him."

And he was suddenly aware of his nakedness, of the heat of his own body against the Basilisk's neck, of the Basilisk's strength and age and power. Its voice whispered into his skull.

"But he has never done this thing that you do. He has never lain with me."

~

Very slowly, Harry stood.

He looked down at his own feet, surprised at them somehow, gray wooly socks against the figured carpet. He knew that Professor Snape was looking at him, and he could not raise his eyes. He just watched his feet. And they did the same thing they did every night, without him thinking about it. The right one held down the toe of the left sock; a pull with his left foot, and then the left held down the toe of the right. His hands rose to the buttons of his shirt, moving quickly -- he never unbuttoned the cuffs -- a shrug of his shoulders as he skimmed his hands down his hips, shook his underwear off his foot, and he was naked.

Eyes on his toes, he took two steps forward and reached the professor's chair, the limit of what he could do. The professor's legs were crossed. His hands rested on the book in his lap, still. And Harry had to shut his eyes because he could see his own prick, the professor's hand so close to it, but not moving. Embarrasment roared into his ears and his face and his prick. Professor Snape might not even be looking at him any more. 

But Snape had to be looking at him, because his mouth was hot, his lips tingling and falling open. 

Then he felt the professor's finger, just at the edge of his upper lip. It was touching his teeth, sliding between his lips and following the line of his molars back into his mouth. His mouth opened, and that finger moved forward again, around the other way. Then it stroked his tongue.

Reflexively, his mouth closed on it, and he felt it move between his lips, slowly, so slowly, but pulling back, leaving him. When it was gone, the inside of his mouth was hot and empty and he heard himself make a noise.

Then the finger touched his cheek and his eyes opened.

Professor Snape was looking at him. And he felt his head falling gently to one side, felt his chin rising, the stretch in his neck, felt his mouth still open, trying to show him, tell him. Snape's arms came up around him, finally, and his head fell to the professor's shoulder, but he kept his eyes open, still trying to tell him.

Then the professor bent toward his neck, and it was just what he had wanted, and yes, the professor understood. And he let himself fall into it, into the professor's arms, the hand on his belly, guided by the teeth on his neck. He fell open across the professor's lap, the professor's hands arranging his limbs, fingers trailing along his thighs, just the slightest touch, delicate, but he listened for it, eager to give whatever it wanted.

When that touch moved to his prick, one finger, so slow, he arched up into it, his neck stretching farther as the teeth held him just a bit more firmly. And the touch explored him, brought his own body to his attention, the whole of him held by the teeth on his neck, until the touch was sliding into him, inside, more, please, please, and the teeth were bruising him into bright heat. He could feel the flesh of his neck crushing, knew he would be marked, felt the change, his chest rising and falling in spasms, the only sound his panting breath. 

But when he realized that the fingers were leaving him, he cried out in distress, open, desperate, eyes wide on the professor's face which wouldn't focus somehow, and the only thing that mattered was to tell him, show him. But no sound he could make would be enough, because Professor Snape was waiting, his eyes fixed on Harry's face, waiting, watching. He fell still and pliant, quiet. Then the touch of the hands on his back, on his hip worked its way up his spine, and in the quiet, it was easy. 

He let his head fall to the other side.

And the hands that held him lifted him, gave him what he wanted, the teeth on his neck, the cock slowly, slowly sliding into him, touching, a gasp and he heard his flesh crushing again, the touching inside and around him making him cry and need and spasm and open wide and come, his own voice a song in his ears.

~

He woke alone on the rug before the fire, something around his neck. A collar.

He reached up his hand and felt it, metal, delicate, felt the two hot marks, sore on either side. He sat up and found his glasses. There was a chain. It slid across his chest. He wrapped it around his hand and let it unwind itself, smooth and heavy.

There were no mirrors in the room, but he did not want to look in one. It would not show him the way he felt.

He ran his fingers along the rich engraving on the collar. Expensive. Valuable.

And he could feel Snape's attention following him, tracking him, assured now, through he was not in the room. 

He paused, holding the end of the chain in his hand, considering without thinking. 

Carefully, he fastened it around his waist so that it would not get in the way when he moved.

~

Harry sat on Lord Voldemort's lap, sinking down into him. Voldemort's face was becoming solid now under his fingers, hard and white, the features pared to the bone, the nose flat with slits for nostrils, lovely, just the way the Basilisk's face felt.

But he couldn't look at the Basilisk; well, not unless it closed its eyes. He could look at Voldemort all he wanted.

The collar around his neck, the chain around his waist felt like talismans. But he wore nothing else because, after all, what could protect him from Voldemort?

He gazed enthralled at one spidery white hand, flesh that had taken some of its life from him. He felt his soul leaking away with a kind of rapture.

Voldemort's hand rose slowly. 

And he froze, his heart pounding, quivering like a trapped animal.

Voldemort's finger under his chin was nothing familiar. He looked away desperately, toward the Basilisk, toward the open doorway at the end of the hall; but the Basilisk had closed its eyes, and the doorway was empty.

Voldemort's finger touched his forehead, then descended, and with an awful shiver, he felt it touch his prick. That finger touched the collar around his neck, the marks at either side.

"Severus has persuaded you to wear this charming decoration, I see. I must thank him."

Harry was falling again, silent, helpless, not reaching out to catch himself because there was nothing to reach out for.

"And I sent the Basilisk to bring you here, child. Didn't it tell you?"

I didn't ask, Harry thought, but he knew that this was also true. Because the Basilisk was absolutely quiet.

But then something moved, and Voldemort raised his head to look over Harry's shoulder. 

He felt it: the moment that the body beneath him stilled. He felt the stillness sweeping through Voldemort in a wave, an unstoppable rush, flesh miraculously transforming into something else, something strange, hard and unyeilding.

Now there were two statues in the Chamber of Secrets.

~

Harry sat still for a long time. But nothing happened. Voldemort didn't move.

Then he lifted his arm. He wrapped it around Voldemort's stony neck, leaned against his stony chest, sprawled across his stony lap. 

Still, Voldemort didn't move.

Harry kicked his foot, marking time, lounging there. He trailed his finger up one stony arm, inside the sleeve.

He bit Voldemort's stony nose.

He spat. Voldemort tasted funny.

Then he put his finger in Voldemort's slightly open mouth, thought about stuffing it with something. Was Voldemort still alive in there? His body was hard, his skin polished, luminous, warm in the warm room. Could he feel Harry?

The Basilisk sang sleepily.

Slowly, very slowly, not knowing why he did it, Harry pressed his mouth to Voldemort's cheek, kissed his forehead, kissed his lips, feeling the hard, smooth, lovely curve. Then he leaned his head back into the palm of Voldemort's upraised hand and turned away, throwing one leg over the arm of the chair. 

He kicked his foot.

The Basilisk's eyes were closed now, its elegantly shaped head resting atop the coils of its body. 

Professor Snape stood in the open doorway.

~

Inside the Chamber of Secrets, the Basilisk sang and Voldemort watched from his throne. Snape could see everything from where he stood. And he had that strange, small smile on his face again. 

"Did this for me, did you?"

And it was suddenly true. Though Harry hadn't planned it, it was true. 

"Yes, sir."

The Basilisk was alien. Voldemort was treacherous. But Snape. But Professor Snape was infinitely more dangerous, because now the professor's arms were around him, the professor's hands were on his back, yes, under his chin where they belonged, and he was somehow across Snape's lap, his arms wrapping themselves around Snape's neck.

"Ruthless creature."

And Harry was drowning and engulfed in his devotion, moving his mouth only enough to say "Yes, sir;" because Professor Snape's fingers were trembling against his lips again, and Snape was speaking to him, talking to him, words and words and words, voice no more than a whisper now, and his face very close.

"Intoxicating, ruthless little creature." Professor Snape was kissing him, opening Harry's mouth, sinking his teeth into Harry's lip, and Harry realized that Snape was whispering something over and over again.

"Mine."

And he thought, Yes. 

Mine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My personal favorite of all my fic, because this Harry is the most like me :)
> 
> Snape? Snake? Freud would say they're the same thing. And Harry curled up with the Basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets? He's made peace with his Id. It's the place Voldemort comes from, and where Snape can't go.
> 
> Dedicated to all the lovely and indulgent readers at snape_potter, who asked for a second chapter; and especially to anmkosk and diagonalist, betas dearer than gold.
> 
> And thank you to the lovely people who have left kudos! You warm my heart. And I'm so glad you enjoyed it <3


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